A Day in the Life
by M'selle de Paris
Summary: Takes place after Christine leaves Erik and goes off with Raoul. What if Erik got the chance to be with Christine, and live his life with her...through the Vicomte's eyes? In short, what if he were to switch places with Raoul?...
1. It's Not the End!

_So! I'm back, with another phic about our beloved Erik..._

_Okay, I'm still here, I won't drift off into my little Erik fantasy-land just yet, heh...- Anyways- what else is there to say?... It seems like a classic theme, but I still haven't seen a Phantom fic with this plot. So, here it is- review, please, and tell me what you think! Also- if you can think of a better title, that'd be great too. Hehe. (Come on, give me a break here- I'm focusing a little more on putting creativity into the actual story instead of the title... And besides- it is, as usual, later at night than I should even still be up.)_

_Alors- voici l'histoire..._

* * *

**A Day in the Life**

- Chapter One -**

* * *

**

"It's over now, the music of the night…"

Erik—the Phantom, the Angel—stood and walked slowly toward the great throne in the darkest corner of his lair. A torrent of emotion ran through him, stirring his passion and fury and desire, as he took his place on the throne and, with a flourish of his cape, swung it up over the chair, surrounding him, shielding him from the cruel world he'd so longed to leave, for so long…

He sat a moment more in the darkness, the sound of the mob's angry voices rising and their thundering footsteps approaching, closer than ever…climbing the gate…storming through his lair...

The moment had come, at last. By the grace of his music, his own enchanting, magical music, he would disappear, never to be seen again…Christine would weep forevermore, wishing she'd made the choice to stay with him…

Erik took a breath, and summoned the strongest emotion he possessed: love; his love for Christine. His music sounded in his mind as he unleashed his burning desire; his soul was straining against the limits of his own body—

"Christi—_aaughh! _Ow—God—DAMNIT!"

The back of the chair suddenly gave way, and the force of Erik's body against the chair sent him hurtling violently backwards out of it. He lay stunned for a moment on the broken splinters of wood, then slowly pushed himself to a sitting position.

"Why, God, _why_! Can I not have _anything_ I want? What happened to miracles, damnit! I deserve one more a helluva lot more than that Ark chump did over there! You couldn't even let me enjoy the death of the Vicomte! It's not like I was asking for a king to kill here! And I can't—even—have—Christine—"

Erik sat amongst the shards of wood and let out a huge sob. A single tear drop formed in his dark eye, and he was tempted to hold it back—if the Vicomte could, he could, too—but thoughts of his miserable, useless, dark, unloved life poured forth—and he let it slide down his cheek and drop silently down onto the cold stone floor.

No sooner had it touched the ground when a sudden melody filled the air—music—a woman's voice, singing—

_"Your fallen tears have called to me…"_

Erik leapt up, hardly daring to believe his ears. The music swelled and grew; it was almost inside the dungeon—

_"So here comes my sweet remedy…"_

A broken but hopeful smile began to grace his lips. "Christine—oh, Christine—is that you?"

The music was louder than ever, the voice strangely familiar—

_"I know what every…_ Phantom… _needs…"_

"Christine! Where are—wait a minute…" Her voice sounded different, and yet— "Christine, is that—OH!"

The music stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

"No, it sure as hell is NOT Christine! Good God, man, get over yourself."

Erik knew that voice.

It wasn't Christine's.

"Oh…hi, Jennifer…"

Standing before him was a short, plump woman dressed in an elegant light blue gown, with gray hair twisted and piled atop her head and sharp thin glasses, holding a…fluffy…wand. A hazy cloud of sparkles was shimmering about her.

"Erik, Erik, Erik. Will you never learn? Don't you remember what I said last time I had to slog all the way over here?"

Erik sighed. "I was fourteen! That Persian stepped on my toe."

Jennifer the Fairy Godmother (if you didn't catch that by now) narrowed her eyes, and peered—up—at Erik under her glasses.

"You said you'd never cry again. You know how I hate being down here. The cold is hardly doing good to my skin. And look at you—what, are you going to a funeral? You should dress more—colorfully! And—you're _still_ wearing that boring old mask? Whatever happened to the purple one, hmm?"

Erik turned away and muttered something about a storm and a raccoon running off with it.

Jennifer sighed. "Well. Ricky, I can't hang around—I have better things to do than play another game of hide-and-go-Punjab with my little brother." She raised her wand, preparing to go.

Erik scowled.

"Look—I may actually need some real help this time."

Jennifer paused. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you forgot how to do the laundry again—I printed the instructions for you, see—"

"No, I—actually, if you don't mind, I haven't seen mine in—no—that's beside the point!" He moaned and stomped back to the remains of his throne, throwing himself down on them, arms crossed, pouting.

"What is it, then?"

"I—" He sighed melodramatically. "I…I lost Christine. To the Vicomte, nonetheless."

Jennifer lowered her arms and peered at him over the rim of her glasses. "Really, Erik. I understand how you feel, but he is rather a charming man—"

"What—he—but—no, you _don't_ understand how I feel!" he burst out, jumping to his feet. "If the man had even the slightest amount more brains than a tadpole I might understand. But—so far—the only advantage to being with him I can see is…well…his…looks."

He wandered to a shattered hand mirror lying on the organ, his eyes flicking across it briefly, then turning away in shame. "He doesn't have to imprison himself down in a dungeon…in a mask…"

Jennifer was silent for a moment, watching Erik wander around the room aimlessly, hopelessly. Finally she spoke.

"I do believe I have a plan that will lift your spirits—for good."

Erik shrugged, still pacing about. "I doubt it. What could possibly make me happy—except being with Christine?"

"That is just the thing I have in mind."

This time his head snapped up, his eyes barely alive with just the slightest flicker of hope.

"What do you mean?" he asked, somewhat suspiciously.

"What if you…were to have a trial run of the Vicomte's life with Christine, so to speak?"

Erik hadn't moved—his eyes were still on his sister, waiting for the rest.

"What I mean is—say you and Monsieur le Vicomte there were to…switch places, for a day or so?"

Erik maintained the same position, but Jennifer could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind.

"You mean—I would—be with Christine? She—she would come here, with me?" He was just like a child, eager and alive.

"Well, not exactly—the one catch is that you'd simply be living the Vicomte's life as the Vicomte himself, to see what it's like, being him—since you seem so envious of what you think is his…_perfect_ life."

Erik stared.

"There—is—no—way—in—Hell—that I am going to inhabit that mindless fop's body. Is that what you meant to imply?"

"Well, yes."

"And he would…he would…be in _mine_?" he whispered.

"Well—yes."

He continued to stare.

"What? It's as good a plan as any…"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Jennifer shrugged.

"Does he…shower?"

She looked amused. "Do _you_?" she returned lightly.

"—So how exactly would this work, then?" Erik said hastily, half his face a mask of red.

Jennifer smiled somewhat devilishly. "Well, there's a certain potion involved. No trouble at all. You'll take it tonight, and in the morning…well, you'll see, won't you?" She chuckled—although it was more of a cackle to Erik's ears.

"And _he_—he will take it, too?"

"Yes. I'll find a way to slip it to him."

"And—how long will it last? I can't think how I'll survive in such a fop-corrupted body…"

"Well…I'd recommend a week."

Erik looked puzzled.

"But you said it would make me happy for _good_."

Jennifer grinned very suddenly and very scarily, catching Erik off-guard and causing him to trip over his cape.

"Oh, you'll see. Now here—"

She swiftly drew a bottle full of crimson liquid out of a tiny handbag. Before Erik could back away, she'd grabbed his nose and poured the liquid into his mouth open in protest.

Then he wrenched himself out of her grasp and plopped down on the floor, his tongue out in disgust and a frown upon his face.

"Oh, stop pouting, you'll be glad of this by the end of the week."

"Hmmph."

"Now, I should be off—got to get this to the Vicomte as soon as possible."

Erik's head popped up, a bright smile on his face. "Oh! Can I do it?"

"Oh, don't be silly, you'll slip poison in it."

"No-o, I wouldn't…" he said, innocently twirling the lasso in his hands.

"Come on. I really have to go; if he takes it too long after you it won't work. I'll come to you in the morning with some additional…advice."

Erik shrugged.

"Sure, alright, anything. Well, leave already! I have to make models of myself and the Vicomte so I can do that little switchy-head-around thing like in the movie."

* * *

_Sorry. A little sarcasm seems to have crept into the machinery. The author would like to point out that, at that point in the movie—the miniature heads being switched around, that is—she did in fact choke on her popcorn and almost had to leave the theater due to a laughing fit. She hopes the public is in cahoots that that SHOULD NOT have happened._

_

* * *

_"HEY!—Um, anyways—where was I? Oh, right. See ya, Jenn." 

With that, Jennifer raised her wand and promptly vanished, leaving behind a trail of bubbles.

Erik stood for a moment watching them float to the ground, then drifted over to his organ and sat down to play, nervously awaiting what the following day would bring….

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_What do you think? Review!_


	2. Midnight to Morning

_Woot! Another chapter! I'd like you to know that I actually got down to work and wrote this on the 7-hour train ride from Milan to Paris, as well as all further Raoul chapters._

_So yay for me. Now read!

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_

Chapter Two - Midnight/Morning

It was night.

Christine was asleep in the bedroom.  
Raoul was awake in the bedroom.

He got up.  
He was thirsty.  
He went to the kitchen.  
He got out a glass.  
He got out the milk.  
He poured the milk into the glass.  
He raised the glass—

The doorbell rang.

Raoul put the glass down.  
He went to the door.  
He opened the door.  
He looked out.  
No one was there.  
He looked up.  
No one was there.  
He looked left.  
No one was there.  
He looked right.  
No one was there.  
He looked down.

He saw a mouse.

"Yes?" he said.  
" " said the mouse.  
"Fine then. Goodnight," said Raoul.  
He shut the door.

He went back to the kitchen.  
He picked up his glass.  
He looked at the glass.  
The milk looked red.  
He didn't remember his milk being red.  
He didn't remember _any_ milk being red.

Maybe it was a different _kind_ of milk.

He drank the milk.  
The milk tasted strange…  
He paused…

And burped.

He went back to bed.

* * *

Erik awoke to a series of gentle sounds: birds chirping, children laughing, breeze—breezing, Christine singing— 

His heart nearly stopped. Birds? Children? _Breeze?_ And—… Christine?

Could it be?

He hardly dared to open his eyes. Was it true, then? Had he not just dreamed up the entire episode of the previous night?

He opened his eyes—and saw…

Flowers.

There were flowers on his ceiling.

Wait, no—it was just wallpaper. _That_ was a relief. He couldn't stand the thought of them staring viciously down at him as he slept…just sitting there lazily, plotting, waiting til he awoke…. In his opinion, anything that contained chlorophyll was bad news. Gave him allergies, too. Or maybe it was the pollen that—

He blinked. It wasn't _his_ ceiling, anyways—it was…it was….

He sat up and took a good look around:

He was in a very…pink…bed, in a square room with floral wallpaper. Directly in front of him—on the wall opposite the bed—was a large wooden wardrobe with two doors; one marked "His" and the other "His/Hers".

He already had a good feeling just where he was.

To the left of the wardrobe was a delicate vanity table—with two little seats. Erik decided to pretend he hadn't noticed that, thus pushing that…knowledge…from his mind. To the right was a large poster advertising "Hannibal" at the Opéra Populaire; Christine being the center attraction of the picture.

He studied the painted Christine, hanging there on the wall, and reassured himself that the dummy he'd made was, of course, _much_ better made and infinitely more accurate.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. You're really more of an architect than an artist," said a voice—very, very, close to his ear.

His head snapped around: Jennifer was standing beside the bed, looking extremely amused.

"Do you know how very strange it is to see Raoul _thinking_?" she remarked, casually glancing out the window.

The sentence explained it all.

"So—so it _is_ true!" he gasped. His hands flew to his face: no mask—but no deformity, either.

He leapt out of bed and to the vanity table; and, bracing himself, he looked into the mirror.

Erik didn't know whether to rejoice or beg to be sent back to his own body.

"Well? What do you think?"

Erik turned. Jennifer was still standing beside the bed, an expression on her face that was halfway between a smile and a smirk.

"Ahh…in fact…." Optimism failed him, quite as usual. "Do I really look _that_ idiotic and ignorant?"

"Well, since you yourself actually know how to manipulate your _own_ face into more than two different expressions…it's a bit better, yes," she said thoughtfully, searching his—Raoul's—face. "But you still lack the…what is it?—That lightbulb quality one normally has when they're even barely alive and conscious."

Erik grumbled a little; but, despite his complaints, he still felt…amazed. For the first time in his life, he didn't have to hide his face, didn't have to feel ashamed or embarrassed or rejected. With Raoul's face, he wouldn't be alone or unloved or cast out…. He'd finally get the chance to see what life was like in the real world—just like everyone else who lived in it….

"And I—I am to stay this way for the whole week?" he asked, surprised at the hopefulness and even excitement he heard in his own voice—well, Raoul's voice. But, nonetheless—he hadn't truly felt excited or hopeful about anything since…since…. Well, all he could recall were the night spent with Christine; teaching her, guiding her...loving her….

"Well," Jennifer began, her tone of voice already indicating that there was a catch of some sort. "Actually…I made a mistake—it's…only a day."

Erik bowed his head, accepting this fate somewhat resignedly; already feeling the disappointment and bitter resentment building back up inside him, eating away what little joy had begun to brew in its place. Of course—it had been too good to be true.

"But—it won't be so short a day, I think you'll find," Jennifer added.

Erik lifted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she continued, "that you'll probably soon be wishing it were hardly even _half_ a day."

"What?" Erik burst out. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to spend _eternity_ with that blessed angel…come on, now, you heard the songs…"

Jennifer looked blank.

"Andrew Lloyd Weber? My _musical_? Come _on_, people!"

* * *

_Whoops. More bugs in the program. Retake.

* * *

_

Jennifer grinned.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll see. Baaahahahahahahahahaha…" she began to cackle, violently throwing back her head—but all she got from Erik was a dead stare.

"Okay, so I can't pull it off.—_Any_ways—Christine will be performing tonight—"

"At the Opera?" Erik gasped eagerly.

"No, in the Paris metro to a band of chipmunks.—Yes, of _course_ at the Opera, you dingbat! Goodness…" She heaved a great sigh. "As I was _saying_—she'll be performing, and she, of course, will be extremely wary of you—well, Raoul, now—attending the performance. Therefore—"

"WHAT!" Erik cut her off again. "You mean—oh, I forgot—horror! horror! horror!" he cried.

Hey, those are Christine's Leroux lines!

"Oh—right then. Sorry. Uh—you can't _possibly_ mean that that—_fop_—is in…_my_…body!"

"Really, Erik. Is that the only insult you can come up with? Come now, don't let the phangirls get to your head. Anyways—therefore, you will probably be seeing quite a bit of—yourself. Now, there is a trick to the potion: if, by the end of the day, you decide you want to _stay_ in that body, you must find—well, your old body—and the two of you must both agree on the permanent change. You must both really and truly want to stay that way—otherwise it won't work. If you don't make the agreement, you'll wake up in your own bodies as normal. And that would be the end of that." Jennifer checked her watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me—I've already wasted enough time here; the Author of this phic can't seem to make the two of us shut up. She's rather bad at condensing her scenes—"

* * *

_Um?

* * *

_

"—Well, I should get going! Bye then, Erik. Take care. Have fun…good luck…God knows you'll need it…"

And with that, Jennifer vanished in yet another flash of sparkles.

"What do you mean by _that_?" Erik murmured, genuinely puzzled.

"DAAAAAAARLINGGG!" came a shrill cry from the bathroom, shattering the peaceful silence.

Erik jumped backwards into the vanity table, knocking over various bottles and impaling himself on brushes and tweezers.

"Christine!" he gasped, making for the bathroom.

And indeed, inside it stood Christine, dressed in a simple white summer dress, her dark yes, going by the musical stereotype here curls falling delicately over her shoulders, her face radiant and beaming.

Erik had never seen anything so beautiful—not even when she'd first sung the aria when Carlotta had stormed away. Because this time, instead of a lovely Christine who feared him, it was a lovely Christine who loved him.

"Raoul!—Oh, dear, you're still in your pyjamas. Better hurry up, then! I had your purple socks ironed for you, by the way," she said, smiling up eagerly at him.

Erik stared.

Christine beamed.

"Oh!... Well…thank you," he said. He still couldn't take his eyes off her…her shining eyes, her perfect lips, her pale delicate skin….

"Raoul? Are you alright? Do you need Mr. Eye Doctor again? Did your eyes get stuck again, you poor baby?" she asked, placing a cool hand on his cheek. "Oh—look, there, that's better! You can see again, hmm?"

Erik was entirely taken aback. Was Raoul really that bad, or was Christine…? No—surely his perfect, beloved Christine hadn't suffered any damage from her little time with the fop already!

"Raoul?"

He had to start speaking, or she'd probably call Mr. Talk Doc.

"Oh! I'm alright, really…Christine," he stammered, never ceasing to be amazed at the sound of Raoul voicing his own words. He offered a warm smile, which seemed to reassure her..

"Good! Now, help me decide—pink soap or yellow soap?"

Erik couldn't contain his joy. He placed a hand on Christine's face and drew her close, preparing to touch his lips to hers—

"Raoul! What in Heaven's name are you doing?" she giggled. "We already agreed—not until the big thirty!" she said, shaking a finger at him. "And Meg said that kind of thing can give you…cooties," she whispered.

Erik stared.

Christine giggled.

"Now, let's go down to breakfast, you great silly muffin! Do you know the Muffin Man…" she sang.

Jennifer had been right. A long day certainly awaited them.


	3. Waiting

_So! The good news is, even if it takes me a while to write the chapters with Erik & Christine, you'll get a Raoul chapter coming right after it- they're all already written. Trust me- up until a certain point, Raoul really won't be affecting the plot in any big way._

_Thanks to reviewers so far- and, to _Erik for President_- well, no one's _forcing _you to read more, but...by all means...!_

_Heh._

_Enough out of me._

* * *

Chapter 3 - Waiting

Raoul woke up. His eyes were still closed.  
Water was dripping down from the ceiling.  
Cold water was dripping down from the ceiling.  
Very, very cold water was dripping down from the ceiling, onto Raoul's nose.  
Raoul's nose was wet.  
Raoul's nose was very wet, and cold.  
Very cold.

Raoul opened his eyes.  
It was dark.  
Very dark.

Raoul sat up. He felt lighter than usual.  
And taller.  
And musclier.  
And…hotter?  
"That can't be right," he said thoughtfully. Which would have been a scary tone of voice to hear from _him_—except…it didn't quite sound like him….

He screamed.

And screamed again.

And—after a slight pause to catch his breath—again.

But this was not the girly, childish scream of Raoul.  
This was…a _man_'s scream.

"_That_ can't be right!" he shouted.

Even his shout was deeper, an more intense than in usually was.  
Even his _whisper_—well…that was the same.  
Raoul was horrified.

"I'm a _man_!" he whispered.

Then he frowned.  
He thought hard.

Something was very wrong.

He reached for his hand-mirror, but found it wasn't in his underwear pocket as it usually was. In fact, the underwear he was wearing didn't even _have_ pockets.

"What kind of underwear is _this_, if it doesn't have pockets?" he mused (still in a whisper, so as not to scare himself again). "Underwear without pockets is not underwear at all. 'An underwear without pockets,' " he quoted, " 'is like a night without stars.' "

He paused.  
It was quiet.  
_Very_ quiet.

"Where's Christine?" he whimpered. "Christine…Christine…" he sang (rather appropriately).

He paused again.

"Christine," he sang.

"I can sing!" he sang.

He paused.

"Where's Christine?"

He stood up.  
He found he was wearing a cape.  
He noticed something white just in the corner of his right eye.  
He turned to the right.  
It was still there.  
He spun again to the right.  
The white was still there.  
He spun around very fast to the right.  
He giggled.  
He spun again.  
He giggled and fell down.  
He forgot why he'd been spinning.  
He noticed something white in the corner of his right eye.  
He turned to the right.  
It was still there.  
He put his hand to his face.  
There was something on his face.  
He pulled it off.

It was a white mask.

He stared at it in horror…

"I was supposed to return this to the party shop _ages_ ago!" he moaned. "They'll charge me extra now."

He scowled and tossed it aside.  
It fell into a puddle of water on the floor.  
He knelt down and drew it out of the water.  
He looked into the water.

He screamed.

"There's an icky face in my puddle!" he screamed.

He looked back in.

"Aaugh! Icky face! Go away!" he cried, batting at it with the hem of his cape.

"MY—PUDDLE!" he screamed, jumping into it.

Then he paused.  
And thought.  
He thought very hard.

"My feet are wet," he remarked, looking down.

Then he paused again.  
He thought very hard.  
He put his hands to his face.  
His face felt…icky.  
No—the _right_ side of his face felt icky.

"I knew someone with an icky right face once!" he said cheerily into the darkness.

He paused.  
And thought.

Very hard.

"_I_ have an icky right face…and I didn't _used_ to…and I didn't _used_ to be strong and have a deep voice…but the man with the icky right face _did_…"

He thought very, very hard.

"So…that means…that I…"

He paused.

"…have an icky right face!" he concluded.

He put on the mask.  
He sat down.  
He waited.

He kept waiting.

Waiting still.

Waiting, all the time.

…Waiting til the Author decided to make him stop waiting, and finish the chapter.

He waited.

Then he stopped waiting.


	4. Breakfast

_Voici the fourth chapter of Erik's unfortunate switch. Be warned, this is probably the weirdest one so far...so don't even bother to comment on it in your reviews (hint, hint)- I'm fully aware & proud of it. :)_

* * *

Erik and Christine seated themselves at a small table in the window of Le Café du Pré, a restaurant close to the Chagnys' house. The waiter handed them each a menu and left them to choose their meal.

Erik studied Christine studying her menu, stray curls tumbling down to frame her face, an expression on her face of delicate concentration. She was the very image of beauty, of grace, of perfection…so why did she act so strange? He simply couldn't believe she was so…so…

_So like Raoul_, a voice in his head whispered to him.

He mentally slapped himself for thinking such a horrid thing of his lovely Christine. Of course she wasn't like Raoul…it was probably just…just…

He couldn't reason why she'd behaved so that morning. Instead, he turned his attention to his menu.

After a few minutes the waiter reappeared beside their table.

"Have you decided?" the man asked politely, holding a pad of paper and a pen at the ready.

"Well—Christine?" he asked tentatively.

She lifted her pale face and gazed at him with big eyes.

"Yes?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "We're ordering—dear," he said, relishing the fact that he could use such terms of endearment with her now that he was 'with' her.

"Ordering?"

"Yes…"

"Ordering—what?"

He frowned, puzzled.

"Breakfast, my dear…have you decided on what you'd like to eat?" he asked clearly. Surely she was merely tired.

"What…I'd like…to eat?" she echoed vaguely.

"Christine, are you alright?" he asked in utmost concern.

"Yes…" she said thoughtfully, tilting her head at him.

"Well—would you like to tell the nice man what you've chosen?"

"Chosen?..."

"From the menu," Erik said patiently.

"Menu?..."

"It's in your hands, darling."

Christine looked down.

"Oh, yes, of course…" She trailed off, then turned her attention to the bed of flowers outside the window.

Erik paused. "Christine…?"

Her eyes remained fixed on the flowers, blowing back and forth in the gentle breeze.

"It—doesn't look as though she's…heard you, sir," the waiter said carefully. "I'll just come back, then, shall I?"

He disappeared.

Erik couldn't make sense of it. What was wrong with his darling Christine?  
"Christine?" he said quietly, leaning close to her ear.

Still staring out the window, she suddenly frowned. Then, without warning, her head whipped back around, knocking into Erik's. She didn't appear to be in pain—Erik, however, was.

"Oh! Raoul, darling!" she beamed. "Are—are you quite alright, dear?"

Erik had a hand to his forehead, rubbing the place she'd hit. "You've just—" he began, then stopped. No point explaining. "I'm…fine, my dear," he said, managing a smile, but followed by a wince.

"Oh, you poor, poor baby, did you hit yourself again? Oh, but we've gone through this; your hat is more _up_ from there," she said, demonstrating.

Erik stopped dead.

"Christine—"

"Yes?" She sat across from him, lovely as ever, an expression of cheery attentiveness on her face. "What is it?"

Erik paused, then merely groaned and motioned to the menu. "Have you decided what you want yet?"

"Oh, yes! I get the same thing every day, dear! You should know!" She made a mock-'tsk-tsk' sound. "And what would you like this morning?"

"Uhh…I'll have what you're having," he said, hoping it was something good. But that was really the last thing he was worrying about. What was going on with Christine?

Erik spotted the waiter a few tables away, walking through the restaurant, and he signaled to him. The waiter returned and got out the notepad again.

"Ready now, sir?" he asked, glancing nervously at Christine.

"Yes, I believe so. We'll have two—Christine, er, what are they called, then?" he asked, realizing he didn't know what it was Christine always ordered.

She smiled brightly at him. "Oh! It's the—" She scanned her menu. "They're right….here…" she said, moving her finger down the list.

Suddenly she frowned, snapped her menu shut, threw it to the ground beside her chair, and began to chew on her spoon, staring vacantly at a spot on the wall behind Erik.

The waiter started. "Is she—alright?" he asked in alarm, knowing very well she probably wasn't.

Erik, too, stared at her.

"I really don't know, to tell you the truth," he sighed. "She's just begun doing this…it's rather strange…- Christine!"

She slowly turned her gaze to Erik's—Raoul's—face.

"Uhh?..."

"Would you…like to tell the waiter what you're having?"

"Having?..."

Erik groaned, then composed himself again. "For breakfast. From the menu. Tell the waiter."

"Tell the waiter…" she echoed, and turned her large eyes onto the waiter, who edged away a little.

Erik looked pleadingly up at the waiter. "Please…"

The waiter cleared his throat. "Er—what will you be having for breakfast, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"For breakfast…" she sighed, taking the spoon from her mouth and twirling it dreamily in her hair.

The waiter watched nervously, but Erik stared pointedly at him, so he continued. "Yes—to eat? From the menu?"

Christine merely stared.

"Perhaps…some fried eggs and bacon?"

"Fried eggs and bacon…" she murmured, squinting up at him.

The waiter sighed in relief. "Right then! Fried eggs and bacon! For you, too, sir?—Good!" he said quickly, not waiting for an answer, taking off once more for the kitchens.

Erik then turned his attention once more to Christine.

"What's happened to you, my angel?" he asked softly, pulling the spoon from her mouth—an action he immediately regretted, as a line of spit hung from the end of the spoon to his angel's mouth.

He put the spoon down and wiped it on a napkin, then hurled himself backwards in his chair as Christine lunged for her fork and began to chew on it in turn.

Erik began to reach forward and take the fork from her mouth, but, on second thought, he took the knife away instead.

"Sir!" Erik turned in his chair, and saw a different waiter rushing towards his table.

"I'm sorry, I'm late—little trouble getting here. How is she?" he said all in one breath, breathing heavily.

Erik stared. "Excuse me…? Do we—know each other?" The minute the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back: he was Raoul now, and Raoul apparently _did_ know this man.

He tried to recover his words. "Oh—I'm sorry, a little sleepy this morning—yes, hello," he stammered awkwardly. The man shrugged and took no further notice.

"Well—has she got any better?" he inquired.

Erik glanced at Christine, who was now tracing the pattern of the wallpaper behind her with her sticky fork. "Well…"

"Ah. I see." The waiter sighed. "I _am_ sorry about that. Poor girl. Every morning, isn't it?... Well, then, I've got to get back to the kitchens." The waiter hurried off.

Erik thought this over. This waiter must've usually waited on them every morning, and apparently knew of some sort of…condition of Christine's.

Suddenly the sound of glass shattering was heard from the kitchens: a waiter must have dropped a tray of glasses, Erik thought to himself with a sympathetic wince.

Then Christine sat bolt upright. "He's here—the Phantom of the Operaaaaaa!" she gasped, falling off her chair and onto the floor in a dead faint.

Erik leapt up and rushed to Christine's side, picking her up and placing her back in her seat, but to no avail—she limply tumbled right back out of it. He pulled his own chair up beside hers, and held her up, staring at her, shocked at the outburst. Was _that_ what this was all about?...

Their waiter came and placed two plates on the table, shot a worried glance at Christine, and scurried off again.

Erik sighed, and pushed a stray curl back behind Christine's ear. She looked so delicate and lovely, her eyelids fluttering softly… He bent forward to place a kiss on her forehead.

Suddenly she sat up straight again, knocking Erik's head with hers…again. He reeled back, muttering curses and rubbing his forehead.

Christine examined her plate with bright curiosity.

"That's strange. I usually order the pancakes."

* * *

_Woot. Review!_


	5. Bored

_This is short, but hey- an update's an update. (More like a punishment, actually...uh, never mind- just read it!)_

* * *

Raoul was bored.

Raoul saw a cat.  
Raoul pet the cat.  
The cat scratched Raoul.  
Raoul pet the cat.  
The cat scratched Raoul.  
Raoul pet the cat.  
The cat scratched Raoul.

Raoul sensed a pattern.

Raoul got tired.  
Raoul tried to sit on the cat.  
The cat sat on Raoul.

Raoul was still bored.

Raoul saw a clock.  
The clock was ticking.  
Raoul watched the clock..  
The clock was still ticking.  
Raoul watched the clock ticking.

Raoul wasn't bored anymore.

* * *

_Mwahaha. Review!_


	6. Padded Walls and Moody Teens

_Finally back! I had an annoying mindblock- I wasn't crazy about how the E/C chapters were turning out. I seriously could have written this whole thing only in Raoul-chapters._

_...But then it really wouldn't be much of a story...and, after all- what's a Phantom fic without Erik in it?_

_Anyways, here's another chapter- and yes, you will get something of an answer as to what is wrong with Christine (whether or not you are willing to accept it- oh, I'm just too cruel to these poor characters. I love FanFiction!). And, I've gotten all excited by the reviews, so I'm going to waste some time and reply, if you don't mind. :) (Just the reviews from Chapter 5)_

**kristinekat13:** Devonny Strauss is glad kristinekat13 liked the story. Devonny Strauss feels very proud that she appears to be entertaining people enough so that they write reviews. Devonny Strauss says Thanks! (Oh, and Devonny Strauss agrees on the foppette-front. :P)

**Nota Lone:** Ah, thankfully we can give Raoul at least that much credit. Patterns are quite his area of expertise, I'd think. (Nota Lone, Not Alone?)

**IndiaPyro:** I pride myself on being odd. Odd and lovely? That's the ultimate compliment.

**TheSiriusSparrow:** Ah, poor Christine. I do believe Raoul's foolish nature is quite contagious.

**LinhDog:** Well, he may not go insane, but he might as well be...ahh, never mind, read the chapter! is excited READ!

**ragingchaosgod:** Oh, 'goofy' is probably the least of Christine's problems...

_And...action!_

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Chapter 6 - Padded Walls and Moody Teens

Erik sat anxiously in the waiting-room of the doctor's office, thousands of questions loose in his mind. What was wrong with Christine? How had this fantasy turned into such a…nightmare?

The first question he wanted an answer to was, what was wrong with Christine?

Which was why he now sat at the doctor's, squinting and trying to peer through the fogged-glass surface of the door to where Christine and the doctor were. (Well, he wasn't so much a doctor for the body as he was for the _brain_.)

Erik felt bad for taking Christine there, but, after all—something was definitely up.

Moments later, the door swung open and out wandered Christine, a lollipop in her mouth, looking thoroughly confused. The rather large doctor, Monsieur Piangi, waved him over. _(**A/N:** Yes, I did say Piangi. Just go with it.)_

Erik stumbled across the room over to him.

"Well? Is she alright?" he asked worriedly.

Piangi sighed.

"Well, this is not the first time I've seen Mademoiselle Daaé," he said. "She's been one of my…many…patients ever since she was a little girl—i.e., the Little Lotte era—"

A Phantom paperweight dropped down out of nowhere and hit Piangi on the head. _(**A/N:** This is the character's punishment for acting all omnipotent and having excess knowledge of the Phantom. Just ignore it when it happens.)_

"—I mean, yes, since she was very young," Piangi recovered, rubbing his head.

"And?" Erik asked anxiously, stowing away the paperweight in his pocket for further purposes.

"Well…sad to say, Christine appears to have a slightly modified version of schizophrenia."

Erik merely stared.

"That's not possible! She was always the same person when—that is to say—when the whole…Phantom affair occurred," he recovered awkwardly.

"Well, not so much—her other selves showed up in that strange connected network of worlds in a certain domain often referred to as FanFiction."

A copy of Leroux's _Phantom_ flew in from the right and got Piangi's ear.

"—That is to say, the illness—wasn't as…severe then."

Erik cast a nervous glance at the novel now lying on the floor, then sighed.

"Nothing can be done, then?"

"No. Although, my good sir, one would think that _you_, of all people, would know this already…?"

Erik started, then remembered. He was Raoul now.

"Well," he said, trying to imagine how Raoul was. All he remembered was the criminal level of stupidity. "You know, the memory, not as good as it used to be…comes and goes, you know…"

At this, instead of looking reassured, as Erik expected, Piangi frowned, seeming rather concerned.

"Memory loss, you say? Hmm…perhaps…why don't you step in my office a moment, sir…"

Erik frowned—then his eyes went wide as he realized just what this meant.

"Oh—no, of course not, sir, only joking—I never really meant that—"

"But you just said you had memory loss problems."

"Oh, but no, I didn't mean—I didn't," he protested.

Piangi whipped out a notepad and began to take notes. _"Short-term…memory…loss...severe... Doesn't…remember…previous…sentence...—"_

"No! I _do_ remember _saying_ it—I just didn't _mean_ it—"

_"Possible…dysfunction…between…brain's…intention…and…verbal results…"_

"Wait—no, wait a moment, sir—"

But it was too late.

* * *

"Five thousand three hundred and forty-nine bottles of beer on the wall…five thousand three hundred and forty-nine bottles of beeeer..." Carlotta whined shrilly. "Take one down…pass it aroooouund…five thousand three—_aiiieeee_!"

Erik calmly set the lamp back on his and Carlotta's shared bedside table.

For the sixth time.

…Let us reassess the situation here…:

A medium-sized rectangular shared hospital room, with six beds—three against one wall, the other three against the wall opposite—two occupied by Christine and Erik (or, rather, Raoul). The other four—well, we'll get to that in a moment.

Erik turned his attention to the bed on his other side to look at Christine, who was staring avidly at a pair of shoes lying beside the bed opposite hers. She frowned, slowly; then, after a few moments, shot her eyebrows up in surprise. Then she frowned again…slowly...—then her face opened in an expression of extreme shock.

Erik still didn't quite believe this was really happening; that he was really there. His one dream and eternal fantasy—to live with the woman he so loved—had turned extremely odd indeed.

He was shocked out of his reverie when a sudden angry voice cut through the thick, dull atmosphere of the room.

"NO! You killed my parents! I'll never take the Mark! Never! _Never!_ _NEVER!"_

The voice came from a young-looking boy thrashing about on the bed on the far right against the opposite wall. The boy had dark, messy hair, and—from what Erik could make out at that distance—a nasty-looking scar streaked across his forehead.

Erik watched the boy a moment more out of mild interest, feeling as though this temperamental young man might be someone he could get along with, but no more outbursts followed. Losing interest, he turned his attention to the man in the bed across from Christine's.

He was an elderly man—probably the oldest man he'd seen. His hair—what was left of it, anyways—was grey and wiry, and his skin resembled that of a crumpled paper bag. He lay shaking under his covers, his eyes squinted in furious concentration.

A moment later the door swung open, and in walked one of the nurses, a plastic cup full of pills in hand. The first bed she stopped at was the old man's.

"Here, Peter, tranquilizer for youuu...—Oh, and since it's your birthday tomorrow, you get to invite five guests! Isn't that exciting?" the nurse asked in an obnoxious tone of voice that one would use to speak to a young child.

"Ahh…no, no, no birthdays…I…won't…grow…up…" the man croaked.

After the nurse had given the man his pills, Erik caught the nurse's eye and gestured to her, and she came over.

"And hello to you too, what can I—" The nurse stopped short when she finally took a good look at Erik.

"Oh—well, hello, you," she said, dropping the baby voice at once. (You get the idea.)

"Uh—what's wrong with that man?" Erik asked bluntly.

The nurse shrugged.

"He's convinced he's still only a little ten-year-old boy."

"Well, what's wrong with that? Ten-year-olds don't need tranquilizers—well, not all of them…"

"Oh, those are for when he gets out of bed and tries to throw himself out the window."

Erik gave her a startled look.

"Ten-year-old boys also aren't usually suicidal…"

"No, it's not that, he thinks he can fly."

Erik was now feeling rather uncomfortable in such close proximity to the old man.

"I'll—uhm—be here if you need anything," the nurse said, looking rather uncomfortable herself. Well, she _was_ a little surprised at Erik's avid interest in the old man.

Erik sighed, and rolled back over onto his back, going back to brooding over this nightmare; now worse than ever. This wasn't how it was supposed to be!...

He noticed a small droning voice at his left, which soon grew louder and uglier and more obnoxious.

"Five thousand three hundred and forty-_eight_ bottles of beer on the wall…five thousand three hundred and forty-eight bottles of beeeeer..."

Erik sighed, and reached once more for the bedside lamp.

* * *

_Yes, I'm not the kindest Author, but, that's Phiction for you. Review!_


	7. Hungry

_Okay, I couldn't hold off for much longer. Here's your Raoul chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

Raoul was hungry.  
He wanted to eat.  
Raoul looked for something to eat.

Raoul saw a rat.  
The rat saw Raoul.  
Raoul chased the rat.  
The rat chased Raoul.  
The rat bit Raoul.  
Raoul bit the rat.  
The rat ran away.

Raoul was still hungry.

* * *

_Never fear; the next Raoul chapter will be longer. Really! T'will be rather interesting. Review!_


	8. OneMan Shows and Irish Drinking Songs

Finally updated...I had a rather bad bout of Phan's block on this one. Hope you enjoy this chapter! (Another Raoul one coming up soon, too...never fear!)

* * *

Firmin was feeling rather tired of sitting around in the Paris Opera House with nothing to do, so he decided to take a walk.

He perhaps wouldn't have been so bored if the notorious Opera Ghost was still up and about the place, but he hadn't caught sight of him for quite a while now. In fact, he hadn't seen him since the night of Don Juan…well, that made sense.

But, unfortunately, the business of the Opera Populaire disappeared along with its Phantom. Ever since that fateful night, when the actors performed the Phantom's own opera, the women didn't seem to want to watch anyone onstage except for him—oddly enough—and the men…well, the men only went to accompany the women, and were feeling rather jealous of this Phantom man who had drawn the ladies' attention away from themselves.

And anyways, with Carlotta in the bin, they really had no one to perform, anyways. Even a one-man show starring Carlotta would…

No. Firmin mentally slapped himself for even thinking the thought. Nothing was worth watching Carlotta onstage, all by herself, for hours on end…

The absence of work was definitely getting to his head! he thought to himself. To be giving even the slightest thought to letting Carlotta have her own one-man…or, one-woman, rather…show…. Come to think of it, he wondered, would you still say 'one-man' if it were a woman? 'One-woman' didn't sound quite right; however, saying 'one-man' might mislead someone into thinking it actually _was_ a one-man show…and saying 'one-man' to the woman of the one-man—or, one-woman—show herself would only insult her. Perhaps—one-_human_….

He really needed to get out of there.

He bolted out of his office, colliding with André on his way out. André stared at him dazedly.

"Would it be a _one-man_ or a _one-woman_ show, if you were referring to a woman?" he asked slowly.

Firmin stared back.

"We ought to start a club. No—we ought to get out. Come or I'll Punjab you."

André stopped short at his friend's words. So did his friend. (Firmin, that is.)

"We _do_ need to get out."

* * *

One half-hour later, they found themselves standing outside St. Mungo's—er, St. Harry Henry Horace Harrison Hollander's Hospital of Hartford.

"Perhaps…you know, just to, er, see," André stammered thoughtfully.

"Yes…just to…have a look," Firmin agreed uneasily.

They stepped inside.

They gasped and gaped.

"Come along! Stay with your partner! We'll go through the Pink Garden this time!" a nurse said cheerily, holding the end of the rope…

…to which Carlotta, Christine, some kid with a scar, some old man in green tights, and Raoul (well, whom they _thought_ was Raoul) were attached.

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" Firmin cried, rushing up to him.

Raouk (yes, Raouk…or would you rather Eroul?) started, gave Firmin a funny look, then started again—realizing whom he 'was'—and his eyes went wide.

"You've—you've got to help me!" he whispered desperately, clawing at the sleeves of Firmin's overcoat. "Please! I don't belong here! And—neither does Christine; oh, my poor Christine…"

By this time André had joined them, and they both looked over at Christine, who was busy gnawing at the rope and humming an Irish drinking song.

They looked back at Raouk, who sighed. "Well…just get her out of here anyways. I'll take care of her. Just…please…!"

Firmin and André looked at each other.

They looked at Raouk.

Raouk looked at them.

They looked at Christine.

Christine looked at Firmin's shoes.

They looked back at Raouk.

They looked at each other.

"Oh, alright," André finally said, with a sigh. "But how will we do it?"

* * *

"This may perhaps be a tad bit harder than I thought," Erik noted, glancing back at André and Firmin.

"Just—ugh," muttered Firmin, trying to untangle his ankle from the skipping rope Carlotta was swinging around in the Pink Garden.

"Hi dee hi dee…hi dee hi…dee hi…dee hi…dee hi!" Christine giggled.

Firmin and André looked at each other and sighed, each very unwilling to expose the former _ingénue_ back to the world.

They doubted the audience would take well to watching her perform her one-man version of a two-hour Irish drinking song onstage.

Or was it one-_woman_?

* * *

**REVIEW!** (Oh, and many thanks to "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" for the Irish drinking song theme repeated in this chapter. Best show ever.)


	9. Stuck

Another Raoul chapter! Yep, these come a lot faster- well, they're a lot easier to write, as you could all guess... Enjoy!

* * *

Raoul was still hungry.

Raoul saw a lake.  
He saw a lake through bars.  
Raoul was thirsty.

Raoul stuck his hand through the bars.  
Raoul tried to grab the water.  
Raoul's hand got wet.  
Raoul didn't like being wet.  
Raoul wiped his hand on the floor.  
Raoul's hand got dirty.  
Raoul didn't like being dirty.  
Raoul pulled his hand back.  
Raoul's hand got stuck between the bars.

Raoul didn't like being stuck between the bars.

Raoul was still thirsty.

* * *

**REVIEW!**


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